


The Book of Optics

by lazyroughdrafts



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alhazen's problem, Bering and Wells eventually because that is the only thing that makes sense in the universe, F/F, Fix-It, Strong Language, equation of the fourth degree, originally titled 'Sophia Sophia', serious themes, so some Pyka, trying to be canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyroughdrafts/pseuds/lazyroughdrafts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bering & Wells Fix-it. Explores HG's relationship with Giselle and how she finally finds her way back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Wide Lovely Eyes"

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF where I've been plodding through it since the tail end of summer. But I'm going to post it in larger chunks here.
> 
> This is for schloop who suggested I post it here as well.
> 
> I don't own anything of Warehouse 13 or its characters. This will always be true.

"Sophia, Sophia."

It is not her name and yet the elderly gentleman sings it to her every Tuesday night as he enters the pub, with a wink and a low rumbling chuckle as he takes his usual spot at the bar. His voice a sonorous baritone carries despite the soft din of music and conversation. It is deep and rich and layered. Comforting despite the weight of years humming through as many as the lines that etch his face. The wispy, cotton whiteness of his hair contrasts with the darkness of his skin and then again when he smiles broadly. The young woman with the almond-shaped eyes turns towards the familiar voice that serenades her and greets him with the only unguarded smile that graces her face all evening.

The observer does not fail to notice this. It is another question that hovers in the air and draws her towards the woman whose cat-like eyes shimmer with a blueness as fluid as the ocean and just as mutable. On nights when the tides change and those oceans turn a greener hue, the observer is reminded of constant green eyes and wonders if the ache will remain if she pursues this course. Will the ache subside if she should capture this turbulence of blue?

 

The observer knows this exchange well by now. It is their particular dance. The well-dressed septuagenarian calls out to the young woman with a name that is not her own.

 

But it is a reference that the enigmatic stranger will only understand years later when she is finally home and curled into the side of the person she has left too many times. One otherwise ordinary evening, by all estimations unspectacular, but miraculous given the personages involved. They are home, in their own private space, savoring a closeness not easily come-by. It is an ordinary act this, being huddled together on a leather couch a tartan blanket warming their knees while they absentmindedly flip through channels.

It is until one of them says, "Stop, go back darling."

And it is a revelation. It is the romance in a name she only then understands. "Who is that?" She asks slightly breathless.

"See something you like?" The response is light and airy and affectionate. " _That_ is Sophia Loren. Want to watch?"

There is a shaking of a head and feather light kisses to lips and the evening resumes somehow altered by a name. But that is some time yet in the future, not so far off in reality, but unimaginably so on a Tuesday evening.

 

"Sophia, Sophia." Is met with the ease of, "Hey Handsome. I've missed you all week," as she pours him a ginger ale. Is returned with the warmth of a grandfatherly, "Me too, Beautiful. Me too."

 

The woman returns a week later. This time on a Wednesday. This time she does not hide in a corner seat observing. It is early yet on this summer evening and the students have yet to arrive for the fall. She strides up to the bar dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked into riding pants and perches on a stool. It is a too quiet evening that leaves nowhere to hide anyway. As striking as the dark-haired woman is, tonight lurking in the shadows is not an option. She is met with a too-eager grin from a bearded young man insensible to his lack of charm. "I can always tell what people are drinking. Don't tell me. You're a white wine kind of gal. Something that tingles. Pinot Grigio." He tilts his head like he's won the lottery.

"You're right. I won't tell you." The woman quips. Her accent adding an edge to her reply. He does not have enough grace to look crestfallen but does look confused, signifying he remains insensible to the response. The would-be Casanova is saved from further awkwardness by the young woman behind the bar.

Sophia, Sophia places her hands flat on the counter, "What can I get you?"

The woman appraises her appreciatively. Blue-eyes glimmer against dark olive skin, straight ash brown hair pulled up in a messy knot. She is wearing a white tank top, the name Giselle stitched in silver thread over her left breast. Her bare arms exposed, a tattoo of an elaborate dagger on her forearm. Her mind wanders as her eyes lower to long elegant fingers. She wonders if her touch would burn. She thinks of charges and voltage and lightning. It would be easy to call her beautiful and leave it at that. The observer is not satisfied with that descriptor. She settles on the word magnetism. For she has observed it and also felt the pull. It is not enough that she is beautiful. The woman has been running a while now searching for escape from a past that bites too readily at her heels and hammers too insistently at her chest. She has been looking for new ways to drown and knows somehow she's found it. What if this one could drown the ache? Would it not be worth it in the end, to be submersed by the deluge and baptised anew?

She could drown. In drowning, she might forget.

 

The bartender is accustomed to such scrutiny. Men, women, young and old, eyes that bore into her back, that flicker across her face, that snake her breasts. She has felt all those eyes and knows this gaze well. They are the thirsty after all who come to the well. But she sees something more than thirst in this woman's eyes. There is a determination and there is a haunting. No, she is not one to flinch from such dark eyes.

 

"I believe you could tell what it is." She holds the younger woman's gaze.

She does not stammer or blush. She does not flinch or smirk or hesitate. Now she is the one to observe, inky tresses framing pale skin. The darkest eyes burning into hers, seeking answers. "I couldn't tell." She replies evenly but curls her fingers.

"No? More's the pity." The woman smirks this time. It is not a mask, this singular confidence. 

"No." She turns to reach for a particular bottle. Places a red napkin on the counter and slides a glass filled with a honey coloured liquid towards her. "But I can offer you something that I like."

Arching her eyebrows, a quick 'cheers' gestured, she lifts the glass to her mouth inhaling gently and allows the smooth burn to settle before she licks her lips.

"English Whisky Company, Chapter 9." She offers before the question is asked.

"English Whisky?"

"Yes." The bartender nods and wipes down the counter.

"Chapter 9." Helena likes the sound of it, the poetry of it. She knows that she was right about her. She knows that yes, she could drown in changeable blue-eyes, in the warmth of olive skin smelling of jasmine and cedars and tasting of whisky. She could drown and the ever-present ache in her heart along with it.

 

.............

 

"Hey there Trouble."

 

She barely looks up to say it, barely glances in her direction while tilt rolling an empty barrel. So that first time, Helena looks around unsure as she finds her customary seat. The merest hint of a smirk flits across the bartender's lips. The former Warehouse agent arches her eyebrows when she understands that yes some progress has been made after five weeks of relentlessly flirting with the woman behind the bar.

Trouble. She likes it. She likes the ease of this recognition. She likes the pang and the ache it elicits. Somehow she finds it suits her. It is a form of reciprocation. It is something. It is also acknowledgement that despite the unpleasantness*** of the incident last week, she is okay and more importantly, she doesn't think Helena is the wrong kind of trouble. And that is somehow terribly significant.

 

Trouble. But this time Helena is not running away, it's what she's telling herself at least. She's not running away to lessen the weight of loss and recrimination that hang from her shoulders. She's running headlong towards a point in the universe that seems to promise the balm of forgetting.

 

This one has already peeled back one mask, has already rejected the lie that was Emily Lake with an arching of a brow that spoke volumes of disbelief. "Pretty." Eyes narrowed and gin poured. "Very pretty."

She says nothing else, but does not call her by that name, dismissing it entirely as a falsehood that she will not entertain. Because maybe Helena has sold it as a lie, has hinted in the way the name tars her lips. No ready hum and flow in the rhythm.

And thus introductions are not properly made. Giselle remains a name stitched in silver against white, while echoes of Sophia sung affectionately linger in the air around her.

She has heard the retired professor call her Sophia or Beautiful. She knows that Zane calls her Bells and Maddy who works weekends knows her as Ellie but teases her with Ella Bella. She sees her tense her jaw whenever one of the regulars call her Doll. She hears everyone else call her Elle.

Giselle remains a name that she never hears.

She will not offer anything of herself after hearing the name Emily Lake. Helena for her part, is glad of it, of being found out. Relieved even. It is uncanny to be sure that this woman has discerned more in half an hour behind a bar than Nate did in an entire year of living together. It is uncanny, this. Being seen again after hiding in plain sight for so long. She cannot help but think of Myka then. She does not flinch from allowing her thoughts to rest on the memory of unfathomable green eyes. Those eyes had seen into her very depths, had exposed all the pieces of herself that she had tried to neatly tuck away in the safe monotony of suburbia. But nothing in her life has every been neat or safe. Though she had coveted it for herself, telling herself it was for the best. Her disappearing act, her cosy lie.

The bitterness still rises like bile when she thinks now on the truth of it. It had been a wreckage from the beginning, smash and grab not elegant retreat. There was nothing noble in the wreckage she had caused. All paths had ultimately led to a destruction of her own making. When she remembers the hurt in a pair of relentless green eyes, the devastation in a valiant smile, endless wonder reluctantly receding away from her into the darkness, bile rises.

 

She allowed herself to remain behind, a coward in the darkness of suburbia. No longer safe or neat. No longer a cosy lie.

 

Myka was brave. Is brave she thinks.

Myka, Myka. Myka is.

So many things to her, and then she flinches. Will not allow herself to taint her anymore. Helena thinks of death and darkness, she thinks of a child long since turned to earth, near cataclysms, a gun in her hand, a trigger she cannot pull.

 

But this time honeyed brown skin reaches out to pull her back. Silently placing a cup of tea before her. Helena does not smile, or nod or mouth thank you. She starts to ask her how she knew and thinks better of it. But there is a question in her eyes that remains for a ghost of a second though her face is impassive.

 

"I hope it's not a tired cliche. You looked like you could use a warm drink. And well, you _are_ English." She says almost apologetically, swiping a shock of hair away from her face, no longer obscuring the extraordinary colour of her eyes. In this light they are a vivid turquoise.

"There's milk and sugar. Or cream if you want it." That's all she says and leaves her to it. Leaves her to her tea. And Helena finds some comfort when she catches the bartender's eyes rest on her silent figure every so often, those eyes unobtrusively making sure that she is alright. Something within her unfurls beneath that gentle gaze, a release. She is right about this one, this one is brave like Myka. But she, she is not alright. Not for more than a century. She has been walking broken, running damaged. Not alright by far. But she finishes her tea. Tries to pay for it but is stopped by a soft shake of the head, "You're good. It's on the house."

 

"Thank you darling. It was just what I needed." She tips her head towards her in silent thanks, a smile gracing her lips.

"You're welcome Trouble." (Because Giselle can't bring herself to say Emily.)

She laughs then. "It's Helena. My name. It's actually Helena Wells, darling." This offering rewards her with an unreserved smile, full and bright and just for her.

"Ellie Bellafonte." She pauses. It's actually Giselle." She rolls her eyes when she says Giselle.

"It's nice to finally meet you. Properly." Helena winks. She reaches out and squeezes the woman's forearm in goodbye. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Giselle."

 

.............

 

It is busy on a Thursday night. Chaotic even.

 

Helena finds she does not care for the atmosphere and fiddles with the chain of her locket as she debates whether or not to leave. The choice is made for her almost. She stays when eyes meet hers across the room, silently directing her to an empty stool. She's greeted with a small wave and a glass of gin, "Helena, give this a try. I think you'll like the slightly more prevalent note of orris root in it." And Helena does. And Helena knows that she is close now. Something significant has shifted in her favour. It has taken over two months but she is close. Though Giselle's attention is swiftly drawn elsewhere, she does have it. She does have her attention.

 

She's always been good at this part, the chase. Barely suggestive touches teetering just the right side of innocent, lingering glances that threaten to smolder but don't quite. She's always been good at causing want to rise. Having learned the art of seduction in an age where subtlety was often the key to conquest, even the most proper Victorian ladies had eventually succumbed to her charms. It was a very thorough education. Acting the magnet, wetting the appetite, these are things she knows. She also knows how to wait, to bide her time. That is also a game she knows well. She wonders why she is even thinking in those terms. She wonders if this crashing need within her has been replaced by a different need, the need to win, to solve the puzzle.

Checkmate in how many moves?

 

And then she thinks of Myka and blurring lines. She thinks of Egypt, a move well-played but resultant in loss. She thinks perhaps she has no more winning moves. Or rather there were never any to begin with because this is no chessboard. This has always been a game of hearts. Played only with spades and clubs and weapons grade diamonds. All knaves tossed at pawns. Every chess piece is a gamble and she has only been playing at cards. All losing hands. Helena loses time in mixed metaphor she has no will to tease. Because Myka should never have been a piece to forfeit. And she was. She had been. Helena had done exactly that.

 

Some hours later, Helena will know for certain what she has already begun to observe, that this woman has an almost preternatural ability to expose her thoughts.

 

It is the bartender's gift no doubt, drawing out the penitent who seek absolution in their cups. Suddenly, but perhaps not soon enough, Helena understands that she has gotten it terribly wrong when she hears a voice as silence takes over, last orders long since taken and they are cleaning up. "You mind closing up tonight? I'm going to head out a little early." Zane nods and gives her a wolfish grin making sure his eyes grow wider and his grin grows fiercer as he nods towards the woman who has become one of their regulars. He is spectacularly unsubtle. "Sure thing. Nothing would give me greater pleasure." Raising his brow as he does so. Helena had been shamelessly flirting with his friend for months now, her intentions hardly a cause for speculation.

 

"Anytime Bells."

 

Giselle rolls her eyes pointedly enough that he schools his face into something resembling neutral. There are words between them but this time spoken in hushed tones that she cannot decipher.

Helena watches intently as she pulls on a paper thin charcoal grey leather jacket and wraps a light duck-egg scarf round her neck. Giselle arches her brow but her voice is gentle,"What are you still doing here?"

 

It will become something of a refrain between them. But now it is just an observation masquerading as a question. That she is still there. There at all in that obscure college town. It is the why that is implied. Helena starts to say something clever but leaves the rhetorical question well enough alone. Giselle looks at her thoughtfully as she grabs her bag. Reading her like all her pages are wide open. She reaches for Helena's hand like it isn't something to be questioned and leads her out the door, "Come on. You've waited long enough." Helena laces her fingers with a hand that is almost impossibly warm and hears her almost whisper, "Maybe you're ready."

 

And Helena wants to ask. Wants very much to know what this woman has read on her face or seen inside of her like maybe she has answers to questions Helena hadn't even thought to ask.

 

When it happens it is at once sudden and slow, the realisation that this woman has been observing her, drawing her closer to her orbit, weakening her defenses so exquisitely that she had not left the faintest trace. She hadn't been paying attention to how it had happened. But it had. Slowly opening up on slow nights, offering pieces of herself, true things in safe installments. She gave up manageable pieces of her past that had remained walled off from her previous life in suburbia. Tearing down the wall unlocked something in her that felt like a return to a semblance of herself. Giselle's flat-out refusal to acknowledge the persona of 'Emily Lake' freed her from the bondage of keeping up the pretense.

 

Helena still thinks of herself as undeserving, as irreparably broken, as a coward, as evil even on the very worst days. But eventually Helena starts to no longer think of herself first and foremost as a liar. In time she will come to realise that in forcing her to deny Emily Lake, Giselle had compelled her to stop denying Myka Bering.

 

They leave this way, hand in hand as if its no cause for commentary. As if somehow this is not some new development. Zane unable to resist the temptation yells out after them, "Have a good good night ladies. Don't worry about coming in tomorrow Bells. Got you covered." Giselle shrugs but doesn't look fazed. "Do you mind if we walk?"

And Helena shakes her head. "I'd like that very much indeed. Some fresh air would be most welcome."

 

They don't talk much. Helena is uncharacteristically silent and Giselle leaves her to her thoughts. She lets her drift inwardly but holds her hand. It should be awkward, this. It should be, but the silence is companionable and their pace is comfortable. The nights are starting to get cooler now and the walk through the historic town centre is pleasant. They pass the early 19th century town hall and round the corner of the red brick ivy-covered School of Arts building. Helena never even asks where they are going. Boone is haunting her tonight. The look of disbelief and betrayal on Myka's face, the look of hurt, of resignation of letting go. And love.

That look haunts her most of all. That's not entirely true. Her lies in the face of that love, they haunt her most. Her hiding behind a good if ordinary man and trying to lose her pain by cleaving to his child, claiming they were the only home she'd known for more than a century to the woman she loved, those untruths cleave to her. As she cleaves now to this woman. They are still holding hands and she doesn't let go. She holds tight like she's at zero gravity and Giselle is the only thing tethering her to earth. The woman notices, of course she notices. The temperature plummets and the gust of wind that follows is icy. Helena shivers and her body starts to tense as tendrils of night air bite through her shirt.

They stop abruptly, her hand is disengaged and she mourns the warmth of that steady touch. But Giselle has only let go to remove her jacket and help Helena into it even as she opens her mouth to protest but is promptly stopped with an apology, "It's not much. But it's something. Don't worry I'm fine. I'm fine. We're not far now." Helena's lips are still slightly parted as Giselle zips her up and swiftly rubs down the sides of her upper arms to warm her before reaching to lace their hands again. The former Warehouse agent leans into the woman's side taking solace in the kindness she does not deserve. "Thank you," she manages quietly her watery eyes threatening mutiny.

 

 

It is not far. There is a red lacquer door flanked by potted plants. There is a jangling of keys. And she is inside a one bedroom apartment filled with reclaimed wood furniture, Tuscan yellow walls covered in photographs and artwork, plants on every surface not occupied by stacks of books. It is utterly charming this simple yet inviting space. It surprises her for some reason she cannot quite pin down. "This place is quite lovely." She says as she runs her finger over the spine of a book "Your home it's...it's enchanting."

 

The younger woman cannot suppress the smile that takes over her features as Helena peels off the borrowed jacket and absorbs her surroundings. Giselle unties her hair and lets it tumble down her back. Sighing as if finally unburdened by the weight of it, "Make yourself at home. Please. Can I get you a drink?"

But Helena is shaking her head and closing the distance between them now. She raises her hand to trace the intricate tattoo on the inside of the woman's forearm only to realise the skin is rough and slightly raised, the ink covering scarred tissue. Giselle starts to pull away but Helena stops her, raising the arm to her lips and gently kissing the length of her scar before lowering her arm.

 

"It's a long story," she offers by way of explanation.

 

Helena places her hands on the woman's hips and draws her near, "You don't have to explain-"  She is silenced by a shake of a head and fingers that thread themselves in her hair,

 

"It's a story for another night."

 

Helena leans into close the remaining distance. But just as their lips brush she cannot stifle a yawn. She is given no time to retract in embarrassment as Giselle laughs softly, cupping her face, nose to nose with her and places a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth, "Now that's a first. People don't start yawning until after I've had my way with them."

"Well, I do hate to be predictable darling." She responds lightly and not at all mortified. Only somewhat stunned by the sweetness of the gesture and how it quells an ache deep inside her but surfaces another. Fingers find hers again and lead her to the bedroom, "Come on. I'll give you something to change into." And Helena finds herself not knowing quite what to make of this woman or why she desperately just wants to fall into her right now so that she can finally sleep.

 

And she does. She sleeps well for the first time in a very long time. Helena sleeps curled into Giselle. She dreams of curly hair and green eyes and the most endearing crooked smile.

 

 


	2. "Push the Sky Away"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you not questioning my sanity?" Helena asks at length, equal parts defiant and afraid of the answer.
> 
> Giselle shakes her head, no.
> 
> "Why ever not?" Helena's voice breaks.
> 
> Giselle holds her closer.
> 
> "Dreaming it, building it...that was the distance you were willing to go for love. People have accomplished impossible things for less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So almost all caught up to the original posting on FF. But condensed into longer fewer chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> There is too much water. I know this.

A thumb to her cheek. Soft. Warm. Eyes flutter. A kiss to her temple. A hushed voice reassures her. "Sleep. It's early." Fingers gently rake her hair. Eyes flutter. The voice apologises. "I have to go to work. Place is yours. So raid the cupboards and fridge if you like. Left some towels out..." Something about a note, keys. The voice is gentle. It tells her she doesn't have to leave. It tells her she knows where to find her. It withdraws. Comes back. Something about tea, cupboards and Darjeeling. A kiss to her temple. Silence and darkness and dreams of a woman whose voice she wants desperately not to forget.

 

When Helena awakes it is close to 2 in the afternoon. She doesn't ever remember sleeping so much in her life. She turns her face into the pillow before she reaches out for its twin. Her pillow. Where she laid her head last night. She hugs it close to her, grips it tight, and breathes in her scent. It smells of ocean spray and cloves, vanilla and jasmine, grappa and cedars. The scent of shampoo and skin. It is new. New but comforting. She thinks it smells something like home should smell like. Warmth from the afternoon sun filters through the blinds. She is cocooned in another woman's red and white polka-dot sheets and they don't feel foreign on her skin. She thinks she should feel something about this. Like the first time, like the first, eighth and thirty-fourth time she had woken in Nate's bed to Nate's scent, her presence as a foreign body, alien even. It had taken time to get used to Nate. She had rushed into his bed, his home, his life. He had thought her passionate, flattered by her ardor. But it was frenzy that drove her there, desperation that kept her those first nights. Still months after it had become their bed, she would wake up in a panic at having woken up in a strange place. She closes her eyes and shakes off the memory, anxiety rising in her chest. She clutches the pillow tight, inhaling deep a scent that frees the tightness in her ribs. She thinks of a picture perfect house, but the scene is more garish nightmare than blissful daydream. She thinks of Nate standing by her side and of Myka staring in disbelief. She reaches up and clutches her locket even tighter. Almost tight enough to draw blood. She thinks if she presses down just a little bit more she would be greeted by the scent of metal and blood. She is starting to forget what Myka smells like. She tries not to think about that. How that is one more thing slipping through her fingers. She tries not to think how that is one more thing she's violently tossed aside.

 

She grabs the towel and heads to shower. Her skin turns an angry red under the punishing flow of scalding water. She wishes it would dissolve her or turn her into vapor. She sinks to the tub and holds her knees close. The ache inside wants her body to break. But she does not break. She does not sob. She doesn't even cry.

 

There is a note, a phone number and keys. She borrows some clothes. Skin tight black yoga pants and an asymmetric zip hoody. She ties her hair up and meets a surprised reflection. She is surprised that she recognises herself. That shocks her. She takes the keys and goes for a walk. Ambling aimless she passes the college's ivy-covered halls, she passes the quad and the Neoclassical revival library. She wanders past the seminary gardens where she is sure her eyes burn holes into a woman's back. She stays 10 paces behind two figures holding hands fallen into the steeple's shadow, a tall woman with curly brown hair and a little girl maybe six or seven with darker wavy locks. She follows them as they round a corner and are lost to sight when they enter a drugstore. She loses them. She sits on a bench. She loses time.

 

When she returns to the red lacquer door it is hours later and night has long since fallen. She hesitates, thinks to go home. She runs her fingers through her black tresses and stares blankly at the quiet street. It is even colder out tonight. She hesitates. Where is home? The sterile townhouse she has rented? She hesitates because the red lacquer door calls to her. Invites her even as she stares at it locked before her. She holds fast to her locket and sighs. It is a door. And what lies behind it may not be home but it feels a lot like something close to it. So she stays. She enters.

 

The apartment is so quiet. She makes her way to the bedroom where she finds Giselle curled up with a book in a semi-darkness that is punctuated by the gleam of a nightlight on the side table. And seeing her there, hair pulled up in a messy knot. Blue eyes grown wide and happy with recognition. Between softly spoken hellos and "You came back." At the voice mirroring the softness of such dark blue eyes, at the promise of jasmine and grappa and crashing waves, Helena does not hesitate, not now. Giselle's lips part as her gaze steady and admiring registers a note of confusion at what transpires. Between a softly spoken "I did darling" and "Sorry I didn't mean to come back so late," Helena strips herself of borrowed clothes. Strips herself until she is almost entirely bare save for her underthings and the locket around her neck. Giselle's face is unreadable as Helena takes the book gently away from her and places it to the side. It is unreadable as Helena straddles her thighs and dips her head for a kiss that tastes like too many things all at once. But feels mostly like it's exorcising pain. Giselle's eyes cannot be read as they close entirely, her lips already parted accept Helena's seeking tongue. She accepts the deepening kiss, the fingers tugging at her hair, loosening it in cascades. She accepts and she gives back until they part for air.

 

Helena does not hesitate at all as she unclasps her bra and drops it to the floor. She makes sure Giselle's eyes are open and seeing before she pins her down to find reddened lips once more. But this time Giselle does not accept. She hesitates. Mumbling against teeth biting her lower lip, "Helena don't. I don't-" And she must see it then, read the utter rejection in those dark brown eyes. Because she doesn't hesitate in this, as she grabs Helena's bare thighs tight, as she steadies her there so she can't wriggle free. "Stop, just stop okay." Brown hands firmly grasp pale flesh as she props herself up. "Just wait." Honeyed brown fingers thread themselves in the shiny blackness of her hair, again grounding her. It's not that I don't want to. I do." But the hurt, the abject mortification in Helena's eyes is not tempered and Giselle can read that. "Here feel. See. You are ridiculously hot and I am completely turned on right now," She says as she unthreads her fingers from Helena's hair and grabs her hand to guide it underneath her nightshirt to meet a pebbled nipple. She does not hesitate to prove it more convincingly as she leans into Helena, warm hands on her hips pulling her closer as she captures her mouth in a searing kiss. Helena's mouth burns with the taste of tea and sweet mint on her tongue.

"It's not that I don't want to. Okay? It's just. Helena, I don't take things that aren't mine."

The words tug at something inside of her, like nimble fingers undoing a tangled web of knots. Helena's eyes well up to overflow, "You're not. I'm not-I want this." A sob escapes as she struggles to speak, "I need this. I need you like this, Giselle. Please." And Giselle accepts that but still hesitates. She wraps her close to her, bare breasts pressed flush against her, coaxing her on to her side. She drags the pillow and arranges it carefully under Helena's head. She swipes gently at Helena's locket, touching it questioningly, reverently before pressing her warm hand against her back drawing her close to her, into her, accepting her. She wipes still flowing tears from Helena's cheeks, "I don't want to hurt you. With this. I don't want this to hurt you more. I don't know. I don't know what's going on with you but you're hurting and I don't want to hurt you more." She breathes deep her voice small but certain, "It's not that I don't want you. I do." Helena wipes at her eyes, gazing into the face of undeserved kindness, this strange grace, and her chocolate eyes grow soft, "You won't. You could never hurt me." But what Helena wants to say, what Helena wants desperately to be true, is that she won't hurt her. That she herself would never cause pain to rise in bottomless blue eyes. And all Giselle can do is nod, caress her cheek and nod, "Okay, okay. But promise me one thing first." Helena nods, "Anything darling." Giselle tilts her head and reads that maybe Helena would agree to anything just then. Make any vow to have her like this. "In the morning we talk. You talk to me okay? Cause I can't do that right now, with you all glorious and naked and pressed up against me. I'm not a statue you know." She smirks then. She reads her well, all her pages open. And Helena laughs lightly, her hands placed flat on a warm abdomen, she laughs turning to her shoulder. There is no hesitation then, no more hesitation from either of them that night. And she crashes into her like she's wanted to, she crashes into this girl, this woman with changeable blue eyes, darkening with the tides. She loses herself in the scent of her, in her warm hands. She crashes an ocean, submerges in waves. She dulls the ache. She quells it. She drowns the ache in the deep.

.............

 

Giselle asleep in the early morning light is beautiful to the point of distraction. Her brown hair gleams with flickers of spun gold and whiskey where sun streams in to find it. It tumbles tussled against skin that holds fast to the sometimes too ardent devotions of a summer already passed, her olive skin a warm brown from this same sun. Dark lashes frame closed eyes that when open and settled on Helena's face, never cease to startle her with their peculiar depths. A voice raspy from disuse greets her with, "I can feel you staring. Not sure if I'm finding it sweet or creepy."

Helena smiles for a beat but stays silent, tracing swirls on the back of the warm hand on her belly. There is a low growl then as Helena's empty stomach churns and twists angrily within her. Dark almost black lashes flutter open. The low raspy voice asks pointedly, "How long has it been since you've eaten?" Helena smacks her lips suggestively. But then a mumbling of "Juvenile" from that newly awake voice accompanies a spectacular eye roll when a now familiar smirk twists itself into a small but unmistakably lascivious smile.

The voice is very elegantly side-stepping the character of last night's intimacies. There is sex and then there is sex. Because if you asked the voice, there were moments last night when Helena felt like she was literally coming apart at the seams, literally unraveling. Like something inside was ripping her open and Giselle was the only thing holding all her pieces together. Last night was decidedly the second kind.

A sigh, "When, Helena?"

Though tempted to respond with something as salacious as her facial expression intimated, Helena refrains. Running fingers through her hair with her free hand she sounds almost guilty then, "Must have slipped my mind yesterday."

Giselle seems like she is waiting for a more precise answer and so she admits more quietly, "Lunch the day before yesterday." Another gastric sound effect accompanies the confession. "Helena." And the voice is now full-bodied and a little exasperated. But mostly the voice is openly concerned. Giselle removes her hand from where it was resting on Helena's belly and shuffles out of bed. She gets up but not before leaning across to kiss Helena's cheek before chiding her, "Do you really need reminding that you're a grown woman?" Helena nods coyly and Giselle's eyes narrow, her tone quiet but firm, "You should be taking better care of yourself."

Grabbing hold of Giselle's left hand she nods absently, "Duly noted." Giselle arches her brow as if she has absolutely no confidence in those words. Her brow furrows and for a moment it seems she is about to say something in that vein. She does not. She twirls Helena's pale fingers in her own instead and places another kiss, this one lingering a beat longer, on her cheek.

"What was that for darling?" Helena asks with a wry smile.

Giselle shrugs, "That was good morning." She squeezes those pale fingers before gently unlacing herself from them. A warmth stirs in Helena's chest as she watches the younger woman arch her back in a quick stretch, arms up. She lets her gaze fall admiringly over Giselle's naked form as she walks towards the bathroom.

"I'm going to take a super quick shower and then I'll make us some breakfast." She yells out as the tap is turned on.

Helena sits up, pulls the sheets up to cover her breasts and drops her head back against the headboard. Mussed up sheets and the evidence of tiny flowering violets on her body draw her thoughts to the night they shared.

Soon enough she's pulled out of her thoughts by fresh towels thrown her way, "Your turn Trouble. Take whatever you want from the closet. I'm just in the kitchen, okay?"

The promise of some breakfast turned out to really be all of the breakfast in all of the world. "How long was I in the shower?" Helena's eyes widen in surprise when she has dressed and dried her hair. "Were you planning on feeding an actual army?" Helena laughs at the spread before her as she rounds the kitchen counter to wrap her arms round Giselle's waist and kiss the nape of her neck. Giselle shrugs as she turns into her with a smirk, "What was that for?" Helena leans in and kisses her cheek, "That was good morning."

Everything in the refrigerator and pantry must surely be on the table. Cereal and bagels and French toast and scrambled eggs and a pot of tea and then some. "You need to eat something. So." Giselle offers as she pulls out a seat for Helena. "So because I should eat something, you prepared everything?" Giselle sits down and pours her a cup of tea and shrugs, "Pretty much. Yeah. And not sorry. So eat." Helena thinks Pete would love this, and swiftly pushes the errant thought aside.

Helena does eat. She even moans involuntarily when she takes the first bite of French toast and the second. Her eyes roll back into her head a little bit. "That good huh?" Giselle sips her coffee barely having touched anything on her plate herself. "No. Better." Helena shakes her head and licks some syrup from her bottom lip before adding, "Someone really ought to take their own advice darling." Giselle's face is impassive. "I'm not the one who forgot to eat for 44 hours." Helena rolls her eyes, but this time it is not a sign of pleasure.

Helena waves it off as she drinks the last of her tea and pushes away from the table. She gets up and then she is chattering inanely and thanking Giselle for breakfast. "Righty-ho then, that was lovely darling but I should probably be heading home now. I imagine you're very busy today and I best be getting out of your way. Thank you for breakfast and for your kind hospitality." As if that were the sum total of what had happened between them ever since they left the bar together Thursday night. As if Helena had simply forgotten to eat and Giselle had very kindly fed her.

"No." Giselle tilts her head and says it quietly. Helena whose dark brown eyes have been looking anywhere but at Giselle, makes the mistake of turning to face her. Before she knows it she is being held hostage by those blue eyes. "No? I was under the impression that this was a free country. What with you lot successfully throwing off the yoke of British tyranny." Helena quips dryly and Giselle does not respond, not for a couple beats. And Helena's defenses are being summoned to battle under the gentle scrutiny of that uncanny gaze. Giselle shakes her head and starts tidying the table. She says it firmly but not unkindly, "I'm not doing this with you."

"What exactly aren't you doing?" Helena's tone is icy but Giselle has already read the panic in the near abyss of her eyes. "What are you not doing with me? If memory serves me well, there's very little you haven't done with me now we've got the fucking out of the way. This is merely the awkward morning after." And Helena who has never been so vulgar in all her life, cringes inwardly as she hears the words that spew out of her own mouth. Immediately remorseful but unsure how to unsay the venomous words, she stands silently gripping her locket as if she would crush it in her hands. Giselle flushes in deep roses, the sting of the words biting into her face. But she does not tear her eyes away. She places the dish of leftover scrambled eggs on the counter and hugs herself to keep her hands from trembling.

"Is that what you really think Helena? Because I don't believe it is. Not for a minute. I'm not okay with pretending that we just hooked up because we both happened to be at the same place at the same time. Because you're so hot that I couldn't not take you home with me. Into a bed, for the record, that I haven't allowed anyone to share with me for more than two years... What I think Helena is if you had wanted to fuck me you would have dragged my ass into a bathroom cubicle, or waited until closing time and had me behind the bar or taken me in the alley. If you had wanted to fuck me and get it out of your system you would have done it two months ago."

And Helena's face is anguished, she is mirroring Giselle's bodily posture now, hugging herself, her right hand still gripping tightly to her locket. She wants to apologise. Wants not to be this person. This person whose violence is simmering at the edges. She wants to fall into the floor. Fall into Giselle. But she says nothing. It is Giselle that moves towards her, closing in on her space but not quite touching her.

"What are you still doing here Helena?" She sounds tired but not quite defeated. "Because of course you're free to leave. You can leave right now if that's what you want. But you can also take the words back if you didn't mean them. You can take them back. You can. Just please actually talk to me."

 

.............

 

Helena's eyes are closed. She cannot bear to open them, cannot bear to look at her. Or breathe. That too is proving difficult. And it is as if she is at once trapped by and irrevocably separate from her skin. Numb to everything but able to cut with precision. The darkness prickling just beneath her skin has once again manifested in knives and taken aim.

Collateral damage, that's what they call it in this age. This age that is so coy with damage. This brave new world that is so fond of its euphemisms for the callousness of destruction. But she is inexplicably pulled into skin by the warmth of arms that have not waited for apology, and her breath escapes in staggered sobs. Collateral damage all of them.

Especially, Myka.

Myka who she had thought to spare. But at least she had spared her the worst of it by leaving, hadn't she? "I don't deserve your kindness." She barely manages the words that she means for both of them. Myka who is walking away into the darkness of a driveway in Boone. Giselle whose face has taken daggers.

Giselle is silent but negates the words by pulling her closer, pulling her down into the sofa and kissing the side of her forehead. It soothes her, slowly softening her edges. It is not the heat of a lover's touch. Helena knows this hold. Helena who had a daughter once, who held her and placed kisses to her forehead. This touch is motherly in its tenderness.

Helena keeps her eyes shut, melting into the warmth of the embrace, into the hand in her hair, into the arm holding all her pieces in place. She is assaulted by all the memories that haunt her even as she is cradled by this near stranger, Giselle who seems nearer to her than even the blood rushing in her ears now. Waves of warmth from steady arms combat the band of ghosts. Wave after wave of images from her past storm her eyelids, pictures in loops like battering rams against her soul. Paris and Christina's broken body. Blood on her hands from anger she cannot sate. A friend fallen by the blindness of her rage. Time spinning back on itself. Christina dying for the fifth time, the twelfth, the twenty-sixth. Christina alive and happy and fading into the crumbling floor of Warehouse 2. Christina fading, fading, gone. Yellowstone and a gun and green, green eyes. A car driving away into the abyss of night. And then the warmth of steady arms pulling her close and lips pressed into her hair, burning her scalp in absolution. The ghosts stand down in the face of this strange Pieta.

Giselle feels Helena's eyes flutter open, lashes tickling her neck. "You're going to be late for work." She offers at length. Fingers continue to play lazily with her hair even as her breath evens out. A shrug and, "So be it."

They shift so that they are facing each other. Helena reaches for her hand and laces their fingers. "I was hateful to you." Her voice is timid. "I didn't mean a word of it."

Giselle nods.

Helena wants to know, needs to understand the pull to this woman who is not Myka. "Why?" She asks quietly. There is a shake of a head. A slight shrug. Giselle is not sure she understands the question entirely.

Perhaps Helena is unsure herself. It is a portion of desperation that propels her to voice anything when the weight of everything that is working to unravel her clings to her so savagely. She has anger and regrets but no answers. And yet somehow when she looks into Giselle's eyes something snaps into place. She needs, needs more than anything to know what Giselle is thinking of her. Before she says anything more. Somehow she thinks, this woman sees, she knows. Somehow to speak is to expose herself, not to the woman sitting across from her but to expose something long forgotten to herself. And she needs to know if it is safe to speak. If she can bear anymore truth.

It is almost desperate when she asks, "What is it that you see when you look at me?" She asks it like she is hoping that Giselle sees more in her than she fears of herself.

The light brown of her skin flushes pink. The blueness of her eyes startling and startled. "Honestly, I-" She starts only to stop. "I don't know." And what Helena doesn't know is that Giselle has seen more. More than she can rationally explain.

"Please, darling. You needn't censor yourself." Helena's thumb caresses her knuckles, gently pleading with her to continue.

Giselle wants to say it. To say, "You look lost. You look like you need someone to find you. To take you back home." She doesn't though. She doesn't. She only shakes her head as if to shake off the foolishness of her own thoughts.

She only says, "I see a woman who looks like she traveled a long way to get here." She exhales. It is the least of all the things she thinks when she sees Helena, when she has seen her breaking and lashing out. When she has held the trembling mess of some deep hurt wracking her body.

Helena's brows raise in mild surprise for a moment. Of all the things she may have thought to hear, that was most definitely not one of them.

Helena tries to make light of the observation, saying something about London being not so far at all, even as this uncanny woman zeros in on the greater truth, the enigma of the woman out of time.

Giselle flushes slightly. "I know." There is more than a hint of embarrassment. "If feels...you feel..." She sighs. "Much farther. Farther than London or Martinique or I don't know, Bhutan. Like you've traveled an unfathomable distance."

"That first night in the bar, it wasn't even my shift. I was covering for Zane." She shakes her head like she's realising something but doesn't know what to make of the implications. "You were just supposed to be passing through town weren't you? I'm not crazy for thinking you somehow stayed here all this time for me. Not for me. Like you wanted something from me." She shakes her head again, this time in frustration at her inability to express herself more clearly.

"No, you are not." Helena looks away for a beat. "You my dear are sanity."

"What does that even mean?" Giselle withdraws her hand and clenches it in a fist, lightly punching a cushion distractedly a couple times. "You know I have actually been listening. To everything, anything that you've shared. You're obviously hurting a great deal and it's not about Nate or Adelaide or your super secret job is it?" She pauses and asks again with less certainty. "Is it?"

Helena shakes her head, wiping at a stray tear. Giselle moves up the couch, hand unclenched now and reaches for Helena and draws her into herself.

"Whatever it is, it's the very worst thing isn't it? The unimaginable thing..." And her voice is so soft and fragile as she asks it that fresh tears stream down Helena's pale cheeks. As Helena nods and whispers, "The very worst."

"Okay, okay." Still holding on firmly to Helena whose back is flush against her chest. She breathes in and nods her head, chin to Helena's shoulder. She nods as if she's coming to terms with something. Readying herself. "If I'm not crazy, if I'm not imagining it then somehow you sought me out for a reason. It feels like I'm supposed to be able to help. But I can't. I would Helena, but I just can't if I don't know what I'm supposed to do." She kisses the side of her head and pleads softly in her ear. "Tell me what to do."

Helena shuts her eyes again.

Christina stops bleeding. Myka holds her gaze down the barrel of a gun.

"I had a daughter. Her name was Christina and it all starts with her."

 

.............

And Helena speaks.

Helena speaks of Christina, of being a single parent, of working at the Warehouse in veiled terms, of murder and Paris, of loss and revenge, of dreaming up time machines. Of failing at time machines. She speaks until there is nothing left to say. Until the only thing she wants to say, wants to know is what Giselle is thinking.

Helena turns, gently extricating herself from the safe embrace that eased the words from her. Giselle exhales.

The yellow of the walls is warming. The room still vaguely smells of coffee and maple syrup but the scent of soap and conditioner emanating from Giselle is more pronounced. They settle into the couch, sides pressed, feet up and mirroring each other, heads tilted and facing each other.

She looks into the blue, unwilling to tear her gaze from Giselle's eyes. Giselle who has been intensely silent, who had been holding her securely, nose and lips buried and unmoving in the back of her hair. Who is looking at her now with an expression she cannot quite place. An expression that is not pity not quite compassion.

She needs, is slowly growing extremely anxious with the need, to know exactly everything in fact that she is thinking. Because Giselle has not said anything.

What Giselle has been is listening. And in listening has been almost disturbingly silent throughout her harrowing narration of events. She has been unnaturally still. Had not blustered out I'm sorries at the mention of a dead child, had not flinched or tensed behind her at the confession of torture, had not slackened her hold at the mention of time machines, or betrayal. She has been one with silence. If not for the tears shimmering at the corners of reddened eyes, one would be right to wonder if she'd even heard a word of it at all. What Helena does see, what she thinks she sees for the briefest second, is barely contained fury stirring those waters.

When she does emerge from her disquieting stillness it is to reassert the most important fact.

"You're a mother." She says almost to herself as if trying to comprehend the fullness of the revelation.

There is silence then.

"I was once." And Helena who has managed her words chokes on them now.

Giselle shakes her head slowly. "You will always be."

And Helena nods her head briefly and swipes at the tears that have started to fall again.

"Christina." As if trying the name out on her tongue, careful with these consonants, these syllables.

Helena clutches at a cushion tracing its borders.

Giselle only says, "It's a beautiful name."

Giselle places a hand on Helena's thigh, whose eyes drop reflexively and stares at the space between them like it is a foreign country.

"You were a good mother." It is said quietly but with the vehemence of absolute certainty. "Before. When you said you were a monster. That you did something monstrous. You did not. You are not." The fire in that certainty would sear flesh if it could. Helena's thigh grows warm under the heat of her touch.

Helena who had circled her fingers around Giselle's forearm unconsciously, almost does not catch her gaze fall to the tattoo on her forearm, to the scar it covers.

"I know a thing or two about mothers. And more than a thing or two about monsters."

Helena's eyes widen as she realises for the first time that perhaps this lovely young woman whose kindness has been balm to her soul, that perhaps she is far too familiar with unimaginable things. That she perhaps has been intimate with the very worst thing. Her head spins. And this time the tears that she cannot withhold fall for another child with piercing blue eyes now cloaked by a woman's body. She almost finds voice to ask but Giselle interrupts her thoughts.

And then it is as if the anger radiating out from Giselle's chest is a palpable thing as she cuts through the words like a steel blade. "The men who murdered your daughter. The men you worked for. They are the monsters."

"How could they leave you alone like that? To rot in solitary confinement. To have you destroy yourself over and over again with your thoughts." Her hands tremble as she asks, "How could they?" In the quiet between them, Giselle's incomprehension is magnified. The horror of Helena's infernal tale flickers in the darkness of the deep blue of her eyes even as she remains insensible to the tears awash her face.

"I did awful things, committed acts of unspeakable violence-"

"Your heart was broken." She raises her voice in indignation. "What you did to those men, they deserved in full. But you."

Helena who is hanging on Giselle's every word as if they are life, leans in almost imperceptibly. And Giselle can see the hunger in the darkness of those brown eyes, the need for her to speak the words. As if they alone will sustain her life or vindicate her.

Giselle who does not understand why, understands enough that she must. So she scoots closer, slides next to her, tugging at the borrowed sweater and pulling Helena into herself without breaking eye contact. Helena tucks into her side and reaches for her hand, finding comfort in the almost unnatural warmth that radiates from it.

"You didn't deserve that." She shakes her head adamantly. "You didn't deserve to carry the burden of that violence. And to be left alone with it like that." Giselle's breath is ragged, her throat swelling and tightening up in anger. "God Helena, your heart was in shreds when you went after those men. Their blood is on their own hands."

"Your bosses," she says with undisguised contempt, "are the real criminals for leaving you alone like that."

Neither of them can breathe. Giselle's insides twist into knots for finally understanding the haunting in Helena's eyes. Sick with comprehension of the extent of it.

Giselle lifts their entwined hands and presses a kiss to Helena's palm. And wipes away the fresh tears with the other.

She whispers into her ear as she places a light kiss on her cheek. "You said Christina was a happy child." She kisses her palm again before lowering their hands. "To have been happy like that, she must have felt well-loved, she must have known how much you loved her."

Helena nods sobbing, "She did know." Hiding her face in her hands.

"Then just hear this, okay? You are a good mother. You tried to move heaven and earth to get her back." Helena lowers her hand from her face. "No one could have done more. No one."

"You don't deserve this, you don't deserve to suffer anymore Helena."

Helena swipes her sleeve across her eyes, starts to say something about what exactly she deserves, but the look on Giselle's face decides her against it. She nods.

"You said it starts with Christina." Giselle strokes Helena's locket with her index finger delicately before reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Helena forgets to exhale as fingers twine themselves in the hair at the nape of her neck. She lets go of that breath as Giselle dips close to place a kiss on her forehead. It is not so much a question as an invitation to finish her story when she asks, "It doesn't end there, does it though?"

Helena shakes her head but looks away. This time unable to meet the clarity in those eyes, "No."

 

.............

They are quiet for a long time.

 

What feels like a very long time. Helena needs to use the restroom.

 

Giselle finally responds to the umpteenth text from Zane making sure the sexy stranger has not sold her for parts.

 

Giselle cleans up.

 

Helena falls asleep on the couch. She does not dream.

 

.............

 

"I built a time-machine."

Giselle nods, listening.

"I couldn't save her."

Giselle holds her close.

"Are you not questioning my sanity?" Helena asks at length, equal parts defiant and afraid of the answer.

Giselle shakes her head, no.

"Why ever not?" Helena's voice breaks.

Giselle holds her closer.

"Dreaming it, building it...that was the distance you were willing to go for love. People have accomplished impossible things for less."

Helena nods.

 

.............

 

And then they are back in bed again, neither of them acknowledging that what is happening between them is more than a little unorthodox.

They are both lying on their stomachs, hugging their respective pillows. "What was her name? The friend you betrayed?" Giselle is cautious when she asks this. She is more than gentle.

Helena tries to change the subject by leaning in for a kiss. It is merely postponed when Giselle allows it to deepen. When she allows Helena to once again work through her issues in the yielding softness of her body.

After when they are staring at each other. When Helena is silent for more than a couple beats. Giselle urges her closer with the hand that was lazily tracing patterns on her bare hip, pulls her into her side, "Helena, who are you running from?"

But Helena does not want to speak. Is afraid of saying her name out loud. Is afraid of what will happen if she hears herself say that name. But she also wants very much to say that name, to hear it spoken. She very much does want to speak things she's never allowed herself to say.

"Myka Bering." She exhales. And something snaps into place, something unbreaks. Her ribs do not hurt when she says her name. When she hears it.

And now Giselle is careful with those consonants, those syllables, "Myka Bering."

Her lungs do not drown in water when she hears Giselle say her name.

Something frees and swells inside her when she hears, "It's a good name. Myka Bering. I like it."

For the first time in hours a hint of a smile starts to grace her lips when Giselle asks almost shyly, "Tell me about her?"

 

.............

 

"You love her." Is the conclusion Giselle reaches.

"It's not too late." Is what she offers when Helena's breathing returns to normal and when she does not deny the charge. When she has asked questions to better understand. When she has formulated a picture in her mind's eye. "She was obviously very much in love with you."

"How is that obvious?" She sounds piqued but her eyes soften at the confidence with which she declares it.

Giselle rolls her eyes. "I made you recount all your sadly very PG interactions verbatim. Trust me. It's obvious."

They are silent. Helena is looking at her like perhaps she doesn't understand anything at all.

"Do you have a picture of her?" Her eyes light up expectantly.

She cannot help herself then. A lightness has taken residence in her heart, making room for itself that she cannot quite ignore. And so Helena repays the hopeful face with a smirk, "And where exactly would I have hid it darling?" Propping herself on an elbow to gesture the length of her still very naked self.

"You are the worst."

But then Helena looks away and turns onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She admits very quietly, "I do have one."

"On your phone?" And Giselle's mouth twists up at the corners. She tries and fails to hide the hopeful grin that teases at her lips.

Helena nods.

Giselle promptly hands her the phone resting on a book on the side-drawer and curls into Helena as she selects the very first photo. Helena hands the phone back not daring to look at it herself. She does however study Giselle's reaction very intently.

Giselle who blurts out, "She's gorgeous."

Then more quietly but fondly, "You look so happy."

Followed by, "You are an idiot. I mean also probably a genius from what I can gather. But also a complete idiot."

Blue eyes bright from the back lit screen and the soft glow of the lamp turn to look her full in the face.

"God Helena, _what_ are you still doing here?" She sighs.

Helena does not look at the picture. Does not say anything.

 

.............

 

When Helena dreams that night it is of Christina taking her first steps. She dreams of the day she invented the grappler, of the last time she used it.


	3. "O Children"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She has been so selfish. And in this too, she is being selfish. If she calls it means that she still wants. It means that she wants and she wants and she means to take what she has cast off and run away from.
> 
> Her blood pounds and pounds in her ears. She forgets what the world not reeling feels like. She knows only oceans in uproar within her body and treacherous unsteady legs. She is not ready. Not ready to know that there is no more hope in the world.
> 
> Because Myka was standing in the dark of night. Eyes mirroring stars on a driveway in Boone.
> 
> She is not ready for her to want to drive away. She is not ready to face the possibility of being too late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason this is still going, is because I desperately just need, need to finish something. And this of all things, I really shouldn't have started. Anyway this is all caught up with FF now.
> 
> Also I watched Belle recently and so in my head I've "cast" Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Rosie and a much taller Sarah Gadon as Stevie.

They don't say much of anything the next day.

Not when Giselle gives her a lift to her bare-bones rental in the historic district. Not when she helps her gather her things at an unearthly hour. Neither of them could sleep for long anyway. It doesn't amount to much after all. Most of Helena's things were still in storage at the B&B. She'd left Nate with a box of books, one large suitcase and guilt enough for several lifetimes. So they don't say much of anything, not when Giselle clears up a drawer and some wardrobe space for Helena before leaving her to set off for work.

"It's okay I get it. I think." Helena is interrupted before she can ask what she means by that as Giselle scrunches up her nose and tries not to sneeze. Fails with an embarrassingly feminine high-pitched squeak. Helena looking up, wrench still in hand after fixing a dodgy sliding drawer, feels her lips twitch at the corners. "Bless you."

"Thanks." Giselle manages before she doesn't quite not-sneeze again. She stares down at her while pinching her nose in a weak bid to prevent a third strike. It is unsuccessful.

Helena smiles then.

"What?" Giselle pouts.

"Oh nothing." From amused to sphinx-like in under 10 seconds, Helena gets up and runs her fingers through her hair, puffing out her cheeks in an exhaled breath as she deflects by considering scope for further DIY.

Giselle's eyes flutter as she pulls on her coat and grabs her satchel and car keys, this time nearly successfully stifling a yawn. "Don't wait up for me I'll be back pretty late. Maddy covered for me yesterday. So you know-"

Helena walks her to the front door. Giselle is surprised when she finds herself tugged into Helena by the lapels of her coat. Surprised by how tightly she holds her and how softly she whispers in her ear. "I am sorry, truly."

"For what, keeping me up or breaking my vagina?" Helena's mouth falls open but relaxes into a smile at the coy smirk gracing Giselle's sleepy face.

"You are incorrigible." She says into a kiss planted on her cheek as she finally loosens her hold to let her go.

Giselle shrugs, "You must _really_ like incorrigible. Seeing as you've made sure _incorrigible_ can't walk straight. And then moved in with _incorrigible_ to make sure she never walks straight again."

Helena rolls her eyes and gives her a light shove, following her to the car. Bereft of the other's body heat, she suddenly feels the cold and wraps her arms around herself.

"Helena-" Before she gets in Giselle pauses. Helena thinks she suddenly looks very young and unsure of herself as she tilts her head thoughtfully. Her long hair is pulled up in a loose knot except for a shock of hair that has tumbled free and covered her eyes. Giselle threads it back behind her ear, unobscuring that striking face that was so teasing and cocky just moments before to reveal one that is almost childlike in its frankness. And then there's that tugging again, but this tightening of her ribs has to do with torn skin and daggers and brilliant blue eyes.

"Yes darling?" Helena moves closer, reaching out to curl her hand on the rim of the car door between them.

"Please call her." And then she says her name because she wants to say her name and she wants Helena to hear it because that is what Helena needs. "Call Myka. Even if you aren't ready." Giselle reaches out to cover her hand, curling round her fingers to squeeze lightly.

"Just call Myka okay? It's better to be unready than too late."

Giselle drives away. And Helena isn't ready. Isn't ready by half.

...

"Sophia, Sophia." Dr. Winston Bishop sings to her as he hangs up his tweed jacket and trilby. "How I have missed you child. Come here."

Giselle rounds the counter to meet him. He throws his arms around her and she holds on for much longer than usual, prompting a chuckle from the elderly gentleman but also a look of concern. Rumbling in his soft baritone, "The feeling appears to be mutual."

"Although I would have guessed it to be one-sided." He arches a brow in amusement, "Young Zane was quite enthusiastically filling me in on your latest romance. Something about that stunning brunette that was regularly haunting this establishment. I have to say his description was rather more florid and his vocabulary vastly more colorful."

He shakes his head in rememberence as Zane catches his eye from across the bar and gestures maniacally towards Giselle and calls out, "Hey Doc don't let Bells skimp out on deets. I blinked for less than a second and the English hottie moved in with her. You're a member of MENSA right, so you work it out."

Winston groans. "Zane my boy, please. Innuendo and crass insinuation are not gentlemanly behaviours."

"Did you hear that Bells, Doc called me a gentleman." Zane beams before he is distracted by a rather attractive grad student.

They each pull up a barstool after she pours him a ginger ale.

"Ellie honey, what's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing, I'm fine." She answers the question he isn't asking. "She, Helena, is staying with me for a while. We're not together." She's quick to add, "She's just a friend."

He's known her long enough, knows her well enough, to know that she isn't fine. And something about the way he is looking at her, the ready kindness on offer in his brown eyes, makes her want to reassure him. Because why shouldn't she be fine? Everything she has said is true. He doesn't need to worry about her. She knows what she's doing. She can handle this.

"Honestly, I'm good. She just needs a friend right now."

She adds quietly. "She has someone back home." And it is the truth somehow. A complicated truth.

"You're a good friend." He pats her hand. "You were a good friend to me when I needed one." He says it wistfully remembering the circumstances, the sudden death of his wife Renee, that led him to wander into the bar. This tough young woman with her quiet empathy had helped him through his loss.

"I worry about you Ellie. You take care of all of us. Who looks out for you?"

She leans into give him another hug, "You do."

 

 

...

Helena stares at her phone, at a photo she hasn't permitted herself to look at for a very long time. Her eyes soften at that gorgeous face with that crooked smile. She marvels at her own face. At how happy she looks. She'd never really thought about it before. Myka had made her happy, had given her peace, even in the midst of the raging grief that still consumed her. With Myka by her side, she had known the hope of something beyond her loss.

She fights the roiling fear, the thousand reasons why she should leave that lovely woman well enough alone, she fights it by meditating on the charms of that shy smile.

She has been so selfish. And in this too, she is being selfish. If she calls it means that she still wants. It means that she wants and she wants and she means to take what she has cast off and run away from.

Her blood pounds and pounds in her ears. She forgets what the world not reeling feels like. She knows only oceans in uproar within her body and treacherous unsteady legs. She is not ready. Not ready to know that there is no more hope in the world.

Because Myka was standing in the dark of night. Eyes mirroring stars on a driveway in Boone.

She is not ready for her to want to drive away. She is not ready to face the possibility of being too late.

But then there is warm skin. There is warm warm skin burning something pure enough to hold onto. There is a soft voice, a gentle voice, a too-frank face that tells her to reach for more, though she is afraid to reach for more.

 

 

...

She visits the bathroom eight times, nine times, more times. She stops keeping count. She is water. She is drowning but she cannot purge.

She stares at her phone. Her finger hovers over Myka's number. She calls Giselle instead. And there is some mercy in the world because she answers almost immediately.

"Hey Trouble, miss me already?" Nick Cave croons in the background while Zane drifts closer, lingers a little too long, too close. Giselle glares at him and waves him away, "Helena? Are you okay?"

Helena nods into the phone before realising she needs to say something. She inhales and licks salted tears from her lips. "What if it's already too late?" She starts crying and Giselle almost doesn't hear her ask. "What do I do then?"

Helena thinks Giselle must have stepped out because the din grows softer and all she can hear is her honeyed voice. "Hey, hey, shh. It's not too late."

Helena wipes at her cheeks, "How do you _know_ that?" She asks it like she is begging for it to be true. Pleading that Giselle knows, knows that this is true.

Giselle breathes deep, "I _know_ that she loved you." She steels herself for the right words. Measuring them and meting them out slowly. The voice grows softer, almost shy. " _I know that you're easy to love_."

"Giselle."

"Shh, listen. I know how much you love her." The voice is gentle, soothing. "That's why it's not too late. You love her enough that it won't be too late. Even if it seems like it is. It won't be." They are quiet like that for a while. "But you have to let her know that."

"Helena, do you trust me?"

She nods into the phone again and whispers, "With my life."

"Call her Helena. And if Myka doesn't answer the phone, leave a message, call her again. Go to her. It won't be too late. Even if it seems like it is. It won't be."

Helena nods again and exhales.

 

 

...

The phone rings and rings and rings. Nobody answers.

 

 

...

Giselle gets home to find Helena awake but curled up in the dark.

 

"She didn't answer." Helena curls into Giselle and sobs quietly into her neck.

"Shh, you did good. I'm very proud of you." She holds her closer, almost rocking her, "You did good." Kisses her temple. "Now we wait."

"We wait?" It is desperate the almost palpable relief. It is desperate the way Helena is clutching at the front of her shirt, burrowing into the crook of her neck.

Giselle nods into her hair and kisses her temple again, "We do."

Helena wiggles in her arms to look up at her. She sniffs and wipes her cheek, "I wasn't. I was rambling. I wasn't very cool."

"You weren't cool?" She smiles and wonders why she finds it quaint and achingly adorable to hear Helena use that word.

She shakes her head emphatically. "I was the very opposite of cool. I was a rambling mess. An awful blathering mess."

"That's actually good. Rambling mess is good."

Helena frowns like Giselle has lost her mind.

"Trust me, Myka doesn't need cool. Cool won't help you." Helena pouts.

"I'm serious."

And Giselle looks serious. Because Giselle is quiet when she says this, says this because it's true and because she needs to hear it, "Cool won't help you if you're on the verge of being too late."

Helena nods and sobs and nods.

 

 

...

Myka's eyes grow wide, her lips quiver when she finally checks her voicemail from the unknown number. She cannot breathe. She forgets how, listening to it over and over and over again.

Helena sounds devastated. Like she has been crying. And she is apologising over and over and over again. She is telling Myka she misses her and hopes she is well and her voice is faltering. Her voice is faltering when she asks if they could meet up because Helena is sorry, sorry for being scared, for being selfish, for running away. Helena is saying she misses her and she hopes that Myka can forgive her. And her voice breaks, it breaks when she says she is hoping that she's not too late.

Pete is fast asleep and snoring as he turns round to paw at the empty space beside him.

And Myka cannot breathe.

 

...

 

 

 

When she finally checks her voicemail they are back stateside from a two weeklong mission across Northern Europe tracking the original Gungnir of legend to a small hamlet in Norway.

 

Her ear starts to burn against the heat of the phone until her battery dies. She does not need to listen to the message any more times. She has every inflection, every muffled plea and devastating hesitation memorised and owned.

_"I miss you and I am hoping..."_

 

The phone is still hot in her palm. It feels good in her hands and she grips it tighter until she has absorbed all its heat into her now clammy skin. It feels good until she thinks about the heat and the cause of the heat. She lets it slide away from her and onto the floor as she herself slides down to meet it against the wall. Where she in turn merges into wall.

 

But she can't stop thinking about heat and EMF radiation; she can't stop herself from thinking about cancer and being almost too late and Helena not knowing. She doesn't want to think about Helena. But that is an impossibility now, to have conscious thought and to not think about Helena and Helena's voice and Helena hesitating and sounding like her eyes are more red than black from capillaries. She doesn't want to think about Helena or imagine spiny red trees growing out from those inkwell eyes.

 

There is too much of everything assaulting her at once and for the first time she curses her inability to forget even one single thing. Because maybe that voice shook her from her self-induced stupor. Maybe that voice stunned her into craving even its loss again. Maybe that voice hollows out her bones and fills them with a stuttering anger. And she cannot allow it. She cannot allow the anger when she is also full of something else that is more potent and just as raw, just as incendiary.

 

So she sits still. Very still.

 

Myka sits still enough to stop time for three full hours. In that slowing she is fragile crumble-ready alabaster, then Grecian marble rendered thoughtless as cold stone. There are doors she cannot quite allow herself to open yet. She is desperately keeping at bay every question hammering against the inside of her skull. "Why?" Pounding against her temporal lobe. "Why now?" Drilling behind her orbital plate.

 

So there remains the textures of a voice that is both the most familiar sound and yet also jarringly foreign in its long absence. She is not anywhere near close enough to where she wants to be, or far enough to pretend that no where else in the world exists but here. Here just outside the lakefront cottage where Pete is still deep in the bowels of sleep. She does not want to think about Pete. Because they are together in this equation now. Her plus Pete. And she doesn't want to think about that. So she doesn't. But her body knows the score and her body wakes her.

 

Her hand rubs rough against her collar bone like maybe her fingers are sandpaper and she's trying to smooth it down, trying to destroy the ridge recently peppered with kisses. That's when time starts again and thought starts again and she hugs her arms close to her chest. The ground is sinking beneath her and the sky recedes enough for dawn to break. Maybe she is breaking with it.

 

Helena's voice reverberates within, humming against cranial bones.

 

"I miss you and I am hoping." Silence. Faltering start. Break. "Only tell me that I am not too late."

 

But she is. She really is.

 

Because when Myka finally checks her voicemail she is on-leave with Pete, their first weekend away as it happens. The first time they are together where she doesn't reflexively tense for a nano-second underneath his touch, or deflect with laughter first or initiate with the ferocity of those who have grave doubts. She really is just too late.

 

"Mykes? What are you doing out here?" His eyes are mostly closed as he gently pulls her up and back inside and she goes with it, goes from stone to malleable clay. "C'mere. You're freeezing." And he pulls her into him, rubbing between her shoulder blades and the small of her back. He feels her warming up but she cannot stop the quaking shivers, and the trembling. He pulls her into bed and draws the covers over the both of them so that they are one large cocoon shaped lump. The shivering tapers off until the trembling is made of tears rocking her body. And if they weren't covered by the weight of the down comforter Pete's eyebrows would have hit the ceiling. "Hey, hey, what is this buddy?" She shudders but can't help but laugh into his neck at his choice of endearment. She wraps her arms around his waist. "That's better." He says kissing her curls, "But you're still freaking me out Mykes."

 

"It's nothing." She manages to say. How can she say anything else? She shakes her head after planting a soft kiss on his jaw. He continues rubbing the small of her back in small tight circles. His arms are strong and she feels cold, cold, cold like she can never be warm enough again.

 

Pete wakes up with the strangest vibe, one that grows stronger through the course of the day. It grows strong and pits inside, coiling tight and ready to surge upwards and outwards. It is suspended in the thickness of their shared breaths and in the moistness that was left by her tears on his Tshirt. It tells him that this is definitely not nothing. It feels like a swinging door buffeted by a sudden wind swinging open and slamming shut. And he doesn't understand what any of it means except that somehow this is about Myka. This is about Myka crying into him. This is about Myka retreating behind "It's nothing." Retreating behind eyes that are turning more gray than green. Behind eyes that cannot quite meet his own with that ease that has always been theirs.

 

He does not know what to make of this.

...

 

Helena has never been good at waiting. At first she cannot keep her hands off the phone, eyes flickering to its screen, ears perked in anticipation of its ring. She checks to confirm too many times that the ring tone is in fact set to full volume, that the battery is full, checks her message inbox obsessively. It doesn't ring. It doesn't make a sound. So the first day she makes too many scones, two tins of lemon drizzle cake and enough beef massaman curry for the entire block.

If Giselle's eyes widen a little in surprise when she returns in the evening to find her apartment smelling of baked goods and fragrant spices, then she keeps her reactions schooled well. She remarks that it smells delicious and would Helena mind if they invited Zane and Winston for an impromptu dinner. She doesn't mind. Zane is surprisingly good company when he mellows out over a glass of wine and Dr. Bishop affably engages her attention by regaling her with stories of his time spent at Stanford. She forgets that she is heart-broken and miserable several times over the course of the evening.

On day two she tries to distract herself by delving into Giselle's eclectic and often obscure collection of books. She feels a pang of guilt when faced with the numerous tomes relating to astrophysics, various historical treatises and poetry. With the pages between her fingers it occurs to her she knows very little about the woman herself. She has not been paying enough attention to know. Somehow she is afraid of rectifying the cause of that guilt. She is not prepared to confront what it would mean to know her.

On day three she doesn't bathe. She takes a nap in the afternoon that extends into the evening and then she is awake all night and she keeps Giselle awake all night too. For the first time she really pays attention to the tattoos that adorn Giselle's body. She stops paying attention when she discovers their central theme, and that their purpose is disguise and not ornament. It disquiets her but she pushes it all down until a once dawning realisation blurs back into a distant haze.

There is no space for anything else, for anyone else. Not now. She is far too diluted as she is and Myka is too far away in her silence. Further away than she has ever been.

 

...

"No more moping." Giselle breathes into Helena's neck and rolls away from her, eliciting a groan and an impotent swipe in her direction, "Go away and leave me to my misery."

"Not a chance Wells. You've had a whole week to wallow in it. You're coming to work with me today." She says yanking the comforter off her body in one quick motion when Helena burrows herself further beneath it, but not quite quick enough to prevent her from grabbing hold of one end and instigating a protracted tug of war.

"Moping leads to too many Victoria sponge cakes and dismantled typewriters and dubious improvements to perfectly functioning appliances."

Helena eventually loses.

"You cheat, you awful awful cheat!" She lands soft blows to Giselle's thighs and legs.

"I didn't need to cheat" She emphasises by bending forward just enough to close the gap until they are almost touching. Until there is no room left but for them to touch. Even as Giselle's lips hover close to her ear and she whispers something before withdrawing. Helena turns, leans in to close the remaining distance between them only to fall forward onto the empty mattress as Giselle bounces off the bed. "You're just very easily distracted." She shrugs, her point made. "I simply employed that knowledge tactically to gain the upper hand."

Helena pouts and wags a finger at her, "I didn't know you speak Portuguese! Whispering sexy nothings in Portuguese should be classed as cheating." Giselle promptly catches her finger, "Oh poor baby. Wait, no. You say everything with a sexy accent. By that measure you're always cheating."

And although the quip is supposed to be playful, starts out as playful turnaround, Giselle almost grows into silence as she makes her last remark rather pointedly and Helena can't quite understand where her mind has drifted.

Helena almost scowls for real this time but has no ready retort to offer because Giselle is doing that thing with her eyes, has found herself again or slipped back into the present and then they are kissing. They are kissing and it becomes more than just lips and tongues and teeth as Helena clutches the hem of her camisole and lifts it off as Giselle does the same to her in turn. And then Giselle is pulling away entirely, extricating herself from Helena's bare body and bare arms. Helena who is indignant with frustration. Giselle who looks nonplussed in triumph. "You're no longer moping." She whispers when she catches her breath.

She turns away to grab a fresh top and jeans from her wardrobe. "And I know. I know. Payback is a bitch. You'll get me for this. Etc etc. You can plot my demise all day behind the bar."

"I will." She huffs in mock challenge. "I would be cowering with fear if I were you Giselle. I am after all the genius inventor of countless fantastical devices. Not to mention a Kenpo Master with a known penchant for terminating with extreme prejudice."

And then Helena is surprised. Thoroughly surprised by Giselle's reaction.

Giselle who turns with a bemused look on her face, hand to hip, and bites her inner cheek before ruffling Helena's hair like she is five and precious.

"Now that was not the reaction I was expecting." She regards her quizzically and speaks with more than a little suspicion.

She does not say what she cannot entirely know but strongly suspects. That this somehow is her first glimpse at the real Helena. Like she is meeting her for the first time and she is delighted with this haughty, playfully arrogant woman running her fingers through her silken hair. Because maybe Helena despite her history, despite being sick with love for Myka, despite everything, is beginning to heal.

She only shrugs a shoulder before grabbing both Helena's hands and lifting her to her feet. "Come on, you're going to make me late for work. We're going to have to take the car." Helena isn't even given a chance to protest as a towel is thrown at her. "Don't argue with me. You're coming too."

 

...

"Hels and Bells in the house!" Zane crows puffing his chest. "With the three of us here, The Underdog just got exponentially hotter."

"You ass I'm right here!" Maddy slaps the back of his head.

Zane pulls a face that says 'Oh shit' enough that he doesn't have to say the words.

Helena gives him a light kiss on the cheek in greeting, "Ryan Zaneddine Durrani, don't ever call me that again. You may refer to me as Helena or HG." He stares at her and stutters a swift, "Yes ma'am." As she slides past him, "Never ma'am."

"Yes Sir?" He offers weakly.

Giselle smirks. "Your face is a rose garden."

"What, no. My people don't blush." He stands taller and acts busy.

"Excuse me, your people?"

"Okay, our people. Our brown and beautiful selves do not blush. And FTR your inclusion in the category is entirely suspect Babyccino.

"Babyccino? That's just milk genius. If anything the actual genius here (gestures towards Helena) is Babyccino."

"I'm right here." Maddy huffs and slams a crate of Belgian beer on the counter.

Giselle has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Helena looks visibly apologetic for a fraction of a second.

"Fine, but at best you're a latte macchiato." And he is entirely serious when he qualifies that statement with a small gap between his thumb and index fingers, "With barely a half shot of espresso. And I'm being generous."

"Except in summer, you're a full shot in summer." He arches a brow and nods to back up his own point.

Giselle ignores him entirely, "Speaking of coffee, our machine is busted. Helena would you take a look at it?"

"What does she know about coffee makers?" Maddy asks for the sole purpose of making her voice heard.

"As with most things, I'm brilliant with coffee makers." Helena replies ever so smugly.

Giselle smirks but turns her head to the side. She is fairly sure she will burst with something like pride and she is unsure exactly why that should be the case when confronted for the second time that morning by a display of Helena's shameless arrogance.

 

...

"So what's the G for?" Giselle reaches on her toes for a bottle of Bernheim.

"What's that darling?" Helena responds absentmindedly eyeing the deconstructed coffee-maker before her with relish.

"Your middle name?"

"George." She provides readily while tinkering with a metal clasp and a bolt and what looks like a spring attached to a valve.

When Helena turns it is to see Giselle regard her thoughtfully and slowly nod. She seems impressed with that information and Helena derives some satisfaction observing her consider the new detail. A smile flits at the corners of her mouth until Giselle's mouth animates with a private smile of her own, "Well, then one of us should really inform the presses."

Helena waits for her to explain herself.

"That HG Wells is very much alive. And that she is a stone-fox." She winks mischievously at a very bewildered HG Wells.

And Helena true to form wants to make it clear that this is no cause for joking, that she is in actual fact 'The' HG Wells. She is bewildered because she finds herself wanting to reveal herself fully. She finds herself wondering what Giselle would think of her if she told her everything without the redactions. What would Giselle make of endless wonder?

 

...

They develop a routine. Helena picks up some shifts but mostly stays home with the now working typewriter.

They go out some nights.

They meet up with various people.

Everyone rolls their eyes when either of them asserts that they are not together. Their body language is too familiar to deny the speculations offhand. Yet they continue to do so.

Whereas Helena would be prepared to let the assumption slide, sometimes does, Giselle never allows it.

 

 

...

It is almost another three weeks after the voicemail was listened to, five weeks after it was sent when Myka finally does call.

_"Hello, Helena."_

 

_..._

When Myka does call it is devastating.

Helena retreats behind the clicking of a typewriter. She only eats because Giselle makes her, watches her until she's had a reasonable amount to maintain her.

She writes furiously. Losing track of time until exhausted she crawls into bed and curls into Giselle who always holds her close, who kisses her head and her face, but not her mouth, whose body yields to her but not like that anymore.

Who holds her like she is precious and welcome and loved. Who holds her like she is loved.

 

 

...

Some nights later on a Saturday, Zane drags her to a private gig, "Trust me HG, it'll be worth it. Giselle is going to meet us there."

They arrive to find a sofa reserved for them and a mutual friend of Zane and Giselle's already waiting. Harvey greets them with a goofy smile on his face, flying higher than any kite.

Helena forgets that she doesn't want to be there when she sees Giselle on stage. Her eyes widen when she starts playing. She is singing and her voice is both haunted and haunting.

Zane whistles at her. And then turns to Helena, "You know, it never clicked before, but it's insane how much she looks like that chick from Phantogram." For greater accuracy he adds, "But with two shots of espresso."

Helena blanks the reference entirely.

"Your girl is pretty amazing." He says almost wistfully.

"She's not my girl." Her face is impassive. But the timbre of her voice betrays her.

"Sorry, woman."

"She is an amazing woman. Wondrous. But she is not mine." Maybe it's Giselle's siren song or the dimness of the lights or that she is starting to feel the combined effects of the wine she is drinking and the joint that Zane is smoking, but saying it makes her feel sad. Like she has nothing. Like she will never have anything.

 

...

Zane is practically asleep on Harvey's shoulder. Chronic sleep-deprivation and Harvey's drug-induced contemplations on language and spirituality weigh down his eyelids. He has been raving to Helena about Giselle. She has heard all of it and not understood much of it until much later in the evening when Giselle is finished with her set and making her way towards them. But much later she does. She does understand. She understands exactly what Harvey means when he says Giselle _is_ bleeding. That Giselle is _with_ her. That Giselle _is_ Jesus.

 

But only later.

 

Her path is interrupted by a very well-dressed woman. A woman who hesitates for a fraction and falls back before intercepting Giselle. A woman who looks over her shoulder first, as if to make sure she is not being watched.

 

Harvey is still theorising on the cognitive benefits of using E-prime but bemoans his inability to do so because apparently, "The truth just IS y'know?"

Helena can hear him but she is not listening; she is witness. And so Helena misses exactly how or why Harvey makes the connection. _But she should be listening._ Because Harvey may be high out of his mind, but he is also a prophet.

 

The woman sees her first and moves closer, but Giselle doesn't and when she does, she freezes entirely, paralysis setting in her joints climbing up her body and restricting her chest. It doesn't quite make it all the way past her neck because she practically exhales, "Rosie."

She is frozen and then she is pulled in, by a stronger attractive force then the inertia of her petrified limbs. And Rosie is saying something like she is sorry, that she wouldn't have come if she had known. And then is mentioning someone named Stevie like she should understand what that means, who it is that brought her here. Giselle doesn't understand anything at all. Not the least of which is why she is apologising. It is as unfathomable to her as hearing the sun apologise for rising after 742 days of night. And why would you apologise for that?

 

Rosie is still apologising profusely and also saying that she was amazing. Is amazing. She is rambling. She is elegant, and English and rambling.

 

"Belle, I'm sorry. I had no idea. I didn't know you were going to be here tonight. Stevie's friend insisted we come..."

 

And all Giselle can say to that is, "It's good to see you." She nods and whispers almost. "I'm very glad to see you." And her face is so openly appreciative of the face she cannot look away from, so open. And it makes Helena  almost physically ill to see her like this. So very vulnerable in the face of something she cannot quite name.

 

Harvey gets lost in his mind while Helena watches slim light brown fingers reach for Giselle's arm, exposing her forearm and tracing a finger along the roughened edges of the scar, tracing along its length from just below cubital fossa until palmaris tendon, lingering across raised skin like someone who knows it intimately, like someone who understands what it signifies. And her eyes, her face reveals that she knows not just what it means but _exactly_ how much it cost. What it cost.

 

Helena watches slim fingers discovering the dagger laced with roses and growing roses, the intricate root system that creates the illusion of the dagger and the climbing vines that blossom into roses on her upper arm. She traces those. And whispers _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_.

 

Giselle flinches but the fingers are unrelenting. The fingers circle her wrist and Giselle looks at her fully in the face.

 

From this distance, Helena catches sight of the unfolding drama. And the look on Giselle's face as she looks at this woman. This woman who is not letting go of her arm. And Helena thinks she understands now what it would be to witness the making of a paradox, to witness the universe being created and destroyed in the very same moment. Because that is how Giselle is looking at this woman, like she is the beginning and the end of all things.

 

And Helena recognises that look. She remembers that face. She cannot unsee that face. Giselle is looking at Rosie like she is everything and what Helena is seeing is Myka. Myka looking at her like she is everything. And Helena is hoping for some miracle that despite her words, that this is somehow still true.

 

Helena is watching and what Helena is seeing is this:

Giselle tilts her head back exposing her throat slightly and it looks like she is trying to tread water. Like she is trying to keep her head from being submerged. For a second, it looks like she can't breathe and then she doesn't need to breathe anymore. Her lungs feel like they are filling up with water and it hurts, it hurts because she is struggling. So she decides not to struggle anymore. And what no one can see, what Rosie doesn't see is that Giselle is making it so that she doesn't have to. She is telling herself, reminding herself, _"I have gills, I have gills, I have gills."_

 

And then she does.

 

She does and she can speak.

 

Giselle is looking at her face, remembering and memorising it all at once, drinking her in. Her eyes couldn't be any more blue then they are just then.

"I forgave you. Unequivocally."

 

Rosie's gaze falls to the mouth that offers her absolution.

 

Before she looks into those darkening blue eyes and she unravels. And she knows that this is true, but it's not enough. It will never be enough. Because that has never been the problem.

 

"I can't forgive myself." She reminds herself that she doesn't deserve it. She will never deserve it. That she told cavernous, gaping lies. Flesh-cutting lies.

 

"I wish you would." And that is a prayer. It is the key to everything.

 

"Rosie shakes her head, pressing her fingers tighter into Giselle's arm. And that's when she notices the sizable solitaire on _that_ finger.  
She cannot tear her eyes from it.

 

"Is that? Are you?" She has gills, she has gills, she has gills and she is choking.

 

Rosie nods slowly, finally letting go of Giselle's arm. But she doesn't retract in time, Giselle captures her hand tapping the diamond before dropping her hand away. 

 

"When? Who?" She is swimming. And something like panic is setting on Rosie's face as she watches the utter confusion on Giselle's, as fresh loss washes over her.

 

Rosie can only whisper. Shame sets hold of her and her cheeks flush with warmth as she answers, "Recently." Giselle follows her gaze as she looks over her shoulder to where a tall blonde is happily chatting away oblivious to the world. Her eyes widen. She turns away a little too quickly and a shooting pain climbs the back of her neck. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head as if doing so will physically shake her out of this strange delirium. But the pain grips her head like a vice.

 

"To her?" She does not understand anything now. Anything at all. "You're engaged to a _woman_?" Her voice is small but loud enough to sound of betrayal. "I don't know what you're saying." Giselle shakes her head in wavering disbelief and looks back down to the ring. But there are two rings. Three rings. Her eyes blur. She looks up to regain her focus but there is only Rosie to ground her. And then there is no ground at all. There is only Rosie's face with her sad brown eyes and her perfect face and her quivering lips. And it is worse somehow. To get lost like this in that face. That face that is losing its battle for composure against oceans of remorse.

 

Giselle shuts her eyes because she does not trust them anymore. She thinks she sees love. Love tossed and drowning in roiling guilt.

 

She tilts her head back exposing her neck again briefly. There is so little air left. Perhaps none at all. And her head is so very heavy. She digs fingers into her temple before letting her arm fall limp to her side. She looks down once more at the offending piece of polished stone. "It looks expensive." She does not know why she says it. Except that it does in fact look very expensive. The woman with the pixie-cut blond hair looks expensive. Looks like Ivy league schools and hand-made shoes and city-breaks to Prague.

 

Rosie's eyes are watering up, "Belle." She pleads. Pleads for what Giselle does not know. 

 

"I'm sorry." Giselle says at length. "But I can't congratulate you." She looks back into Rosie's warm watery eyes and speaks into them. "I've never lied to you. And I'm not about to start now."

 

Rosie nods and wipes at the corner of her eye as the threatening tears gather to overflow. But Giselle's have done more than threaten and she lets them fall brazenly. Unashamed by her appearance.

 

"I forgave you." It is adamant. She wipes at her cheeks as she licks the salt off her lips. "I'd forgive you anything. Everything but this."

 

She swallows. _I have gills, I have gills, I have gills._

 

"Please don't do this. I'm still here. I love you and I am still here." 

 

...

When Zane's eyes flutter open he sees what Helena is seeing. He is frantic and gesturing wildly and horrified. He looks as if he has woken to find his father shooting a puppy in the head. "Oh God you have to dooo something. You have to do something!"

But Helena doesn't know what to do. She can only watch it unfold. That is the problem.

 

 

...

When Myka had finally called back a week ago, Helena had thought the wait exceedingly excruciating. But until then she had had hope, she had been able to find some buoyancy in the last vestiges of hope. And then Myka had finally called back:

"Hello, Helena..."

"Myka? Oh God it's so good to hear your voice darling. It's the very best sound in the world. I was beginning to think-" The voice is very glad. Ecstatic even. Breathy. Like it is breathing in hope. The voice sounds like it is waking up to colour.

"Just don't okay." There is a harshness that Helena has never heard before.

"Don't what darling?" The voice recedes like it has been slapped, full and hard.

"That. Call me darling. Sound so happy. Pretend like it's normal that we haven't spoken for almost a year and a half."

It is too many things. Weariness and anger and regret.

"Myka." The voice falters. It trembles. It prays her name.

"What is it that you want Helena?" Myka sounds so tired. And more than a little sad.

"You." The voice breaks. "Just you."

Myka inhales sharply and though her eyes tear. She shuts them. Though every instinct in her body is to soften, to dissolve entirely into that fragile, faltering voice. She shuts down, clenches her free hand. Tries to shut her out.

Tries to shut her up with venom, "Things with Giselle not work out then?"

There is silence then. And it is cavernous.

"What did you say? How do you know...You can't possibly know..."

"Does it matter?

"It matters a great deal. What is it that you think you know Myka?"

"There was an incident earlier this year. I asked Kosan to...What does it matter, I've known for almost 6 months."

"That is _impossible_."

"Helena."

"You are not listening to me. That is quite impossible. I haven't even known her for four." And then there is impatience and anger and more than a hint of fear. Helena is stunned into incomprehension. She doesn't understand what any of this means.

"Just don't. Don't. It's too late. I'm with Pete. I don't care about Giselle or what's possible or impossible."

"What?" The voice is breathless. Like it cannot find air or does not know how to breathe or what lungs are for?

And there it is. There. That is what it means to know nothing. To understand nothing. To be stunned into silence. Stunned into a deep and cavernous silence.

"I'm with Pete."

 

...

So Myka had called and Giselle had found her crying. The way people cry when they are riven.

It was excruciating but Giselle made her recount their brief but painful conversation in detail over and over again until she had it memorised. Helena withheld the part where she herself was mentioned. Helena's mind was still reeling and she needed Giselle not to be. She needed buoyancy.

She complies. She recounts everything. Every detail except the part that Myka knows about Giselle and how impossible it is that she knows about her.

Helena who used to know many things, who still knows a great deal about many things, wants to know what Giselle is thinking. Because maybe Giselle knows what Myka is thinking. Helena is still hoping that this might be true.

"Pete? As in her partner Pete? Her partner Pete is now her partner?" Her voice grows steadily louder with incredulity.

Helena wipes her eyes and nods pitifully.

"But we like Pete right?" She asks rubbing her forehead.

Helena nods again as fresh tears make their tracks.

"Do you want me to hate him? Because I will. I'll hate him if you want me to."

Helena shakes her head and if her heart weren't so bruised she would laugh at the ferocity of Giselle's loyalty. That in itself is an absurd thing. Laughable. For what has Helena done to deserve such uncompromising devotion?

Giselle continues to rub her forehead with the weariness of those who have seen the future unfolding in apocalyptic nightmares. Her pain is alleviated somewhat when she has a sudden epiphany and heads for her stash of liquor.

"Okay, okay." Giselle nods processing the information on her knees while inspecting the contents of her selection of premium whisky.

Helena is sat on the floor knees bent and back resting against the sofa. Giselle lowers herself and a bottle of 18 year old Yamazaki. Positioning herself cross-legged just in front of Helena.

"Okay, first things first. We need to get drunk. And this situation definitely calls for the good stuff." With one hand Giselle passes her the bottle, nudging it towards her face until Helena's fingers wrap around its neck. With the other she grabs hold of Helena's ankles to place her feet in her lap. She starts kneading the soles of her feet slowly as Helena takes a big swig. She works round her ankles and into her calves as Helena sips from the bottle, concentrating on the pressure she is applying as if that is the single most important thing. She is not paying attention to the way Helena is looking at her, inspecting her as if seeing her for the first time. Helena then leans forward to press the bottle to Giselle's lips only to undershoot and have some spill down her chin and breasts.

Then Helena is staring at Giselle's wet lips and shining chin and down her low cut scoop top. And Helena is setting the bottle down. She is shifting her feet and wresting them back from Giselle's hold, closing the distance between them and lapping the remaining liquid from her chin to her mouth. And then she is taking the one thing in her life that is easy and available and comforting.

And Giselle is always so yielding. The feel of her skin is so familiar now, the smell of her, the taste of her is familiar and comforting. And a part of Helena thinks this is almost like coming home. Almost. And she thinks of Myka and wonders if that is what she is feeling with Pete. The almost?

It is Giselle who does not allow it. Who kisses her hard and deep and pulls away. Cupping her face and gently kissing her cheek into stopping. Whispering for her to stop. Holds her while she breaks, melted into her as she is, "I am not _her_. I _cannot_ be her. And you shouldn't want that either."

"I know." Helena inhales. "I don't."

"This isn't helping anymore Helena. You have to concentrate on getting her back and I can't be the anaesthetic."

"She is with Peter. I'm too late." She almost spits his name then reaches for the bottle.

"Yes, she's with Pete. And that's fucked. That's totally fucked." She takes a deep breath before both conceding to the assertion and rejecting it altogether.

"You're late. It's not the same thing."

Helena snaps, "When precisely is it too late Giselle? When? This sounds an awful lot like too bloody late."

Her words to Myka are being echoed back to her.

"Would you just listen. You're not listening to what she said." She hesitates for a moment considering her words carefully, delivering them gently at first. "She said she was with Pete. That's what she said. What she meant was, you made everything that much harder. She is _with_ Pete." She pauses as if that inflection explains everything. But Helena's face is a peculiar mixture of stony bitterness and resignation.

"She didn't saying anything about _love_." It is impossibly hopeful; her words are desperate and hopeful and growing in fervency. "Not about loving him or not loving you. Why did she wait so long to call you back? Why doesn't she want to meet up with you?"

Helena starts to cry softly and shrugs.

"Because EVERYTHING is fucked and it's late. But it's not too late. It's not the same fucking thing. If it were she'd be able to look you in the eyes and say she's in love with Pete and that she's not in love with you. That's when it's too bloody late Helena. Only then."

Helena is still silently crying. But now she is almost stunned deeper into silence because Giselle is crying, "Just stop. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and fix this. Fix this."

"You're not alone okay? I'm here. I'm right here."

 

...

Helena hadn't known then what it meant. Or even imagined the extent of it. And maybe it was Harvey's Meditations on Christ or his E-prime or the potency of their intoxicants or the music or Giselle's beautiful crumbling face unable to look away from Rosie's. But she started to think on it on what it means that Giselle _is_ bleeding; that maybe Giselle _is_ Jesus because Giselle _is_ with her even though Giselle is _dying_ and is _breaking_ and Giselle is _Love_. Because Helena is drunk and Helena is in love, is so in love. But Myka _is_ mad and Myka is _with_ Pete; and maybe Myka is Jesus because Myka _is_ Love and Myka knew about Giselle six months ago. And things are fucked. Everything is fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pass me that lovely little gun  
> My dear, my darling one  
> The cleaners are coming, one by one  
> You don't even want to let them start
> 
> They are knocking now upon your door  
> They measure the room, they know the score  
> They're mopping up the butcher's floor  
> Of your broken little hearts"
> 
> O Children  
> Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds  
> Abbatoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

> ***In the original posting the incident is footnoted in italics.


End file.
